


Secondhand Lovers

by autoeuphoric (FreezingRayne)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Dominance, M/M, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Tentabulges, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 08:03:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4093309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreezingRayne/pseuds/autoeuphoric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strider is smiling like he's got you all figured out, like your insides are a mess of spare parts scattered across a worktable, and he's just found a way to make them all fit together. "What if I make you like it?" He licks the skin of your neck, tasting your sweat. "Let me take you apart, bro."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secondhand Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> This is just pure indulgence on my part. These two need to be a thing; they're made for each other.

The first time he kisses you--cupping your chin, fingers callused and hot--you hold back. You open your mouth to taste him, but your fists are clenched and shaking by your sides. His human skin is as soft as the flesh of a peach. It will bruise just as easily.  

Your hesitancy makes Strider push twice as hard, shoving you up against the metal wall of his workshop, tugging at your lip with blunt human teeth. You can't prevent your whine or the surfacing instinct to bare your throat. Strider splays a hand across your abdomen, brashly possessive. He really believes he could keep you pinned.

"You want me, but you won't kiss me back." A thumb traces up the tendon in your neck, just enough sensation to make you shiver. "Is it not a thing you guys do?"

"No-no, we do."

Strider plucks your shades off your face. "Then what's the problem?"

You have to swallow several times before you manage, "My strength, even for a troll is...considerable."

"You're afraid you'll hurt me."

You nod, face burning. The admission of concern for a creature so far below you is shameful.

"You won’t.” The force, the sheer confidence in his own abilities makes your skin flash cold, then hot. Your bulge squirms in its sheath.

You’ve been spending more and more time at Strider’s hive lately, the two of you working side by side, attempting to reinvent countless basic necessities for the good of your fledgling community. Strider is one of the heroes of the game, a god of the new world, but he still works as hard as anyone else.

He strokes you through your pants. "That feel good?" You groan and shake your head. He stops touching you and you gasp at the loss.

He snorts a frustrated breath through his nostrils. "You are giving me some serious mixed signals, dude. If you're not down, just tell me. I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to."

"No, please." You come so close to clutching at his shoulders. "Please...I want you to--I want you to make me."

Strider's mouth twitches. "So that _is_ what you like." You take a breath that sounds alarmingly like a sob. "You don't like that you like it," he guesses.

You pull in a few shuddering breaths. "Yes. It is--I don't--." You can’t explain your reticence without insulting him, and you are surprised to find you don't want to do that. He is beautiful and strange, and one of the few living beings on the new Earth that does not treat you like an aberration of nature. Even if sometimes you think you might deserve it.

Strider is smiling like he's gotten you all figured out, like your insides are a mess of spare parts scattered across a worktable, and he's just found a way to make them all fit together. "What if I make you like it?" He licks the skin of your neck, tasting your sweat . "Let me take you apart, bro."

\-- 

That is how you end up flat on your back on a dusty floor, Dirk Strider standing over you.

"Hot damn."  Strider traces his knuckles across your forehead and down your cheek, smearing sweat. His fingers are hotter than even the lowliest dirt-blood's. Your moan is trapped by the strip of leather threaded between your teeth. "You look so good with a bit in your mouth. I should saddle you up and ride you down the street. You're definitely big enough to be my horse."

You tremble when he talks to you like a beast, like you're something that's his. The iron cuffs around your wrist and ankles fit perfectly, which makes you think he made them specifically with you in mind. You strain against them, but not too hard. They would break under your full strength, and so would he.

And that's what makes this truly depraved. You aren't really held captive against your will. If Strider had been a highblood, you could have debased yourself without fear--it would be only fitting--but seeing the pale skin and the alien angles of his body as he undresses, the burning orange of his eyes when he removes his shades...he's a filthy, low creature. You want him so much.

Looking at you bound on the floor makes heat flare in his eyes, chest, neck and face tinged with a pink flush, making it impossible to forget the color of his blood. It means less to nothing in this new world, the blood caste system one of the first things to be abolished by nearly unanimous vote, but you cannot change yourself so quickly. Addiction is a powerful thing.  

Strider throws a leg over you, and goodness, it really is like he's riding you, like you're a hoofbeast and he is your master. You imagine what it would be like if he did what he'd threatened, clipped a bridal to you and pulled you out into the open to show you off. Your nook aches and sweat paints a slippery sheen over your back.

Dirk rises up on his haunches, reaching back behind him for your bulge. You jerk against the cuffs.

He quirks an eyebrow. "Something wrong? Chains too tight?"

You forget the bit in your mouth and it chafes your lips, words strangled down to nothing.  

Dirk is the picture of ironic innocence as he follows your gaze down between his legs. “Oh, right. Yeah. No two-for-one deal where I come from.”

You shake your head. How does he plan to take your bulge if he has no nook?

His grin is as sharp as his shades. “This is probably pretty kinky for you guys.” His thighs shake from the strain of keeping himself held upright, and when he leans back, the tip of your bulge brushes the cleft of his buttocks. You groan and twitch, automatically drawn to the warmth of him. He laughs. “God, that feels so weird.” He reaches back to stroke you again. “I alchemized some stuff, but I don’t know if we’re gonna need it. You’re self-lubricating, bro.”

You grunt through the gag, because of course you are.

“If you want me to stop,” Dirk says, “Shake your head.”

You don’t shake your head, you tip it back and close your eyes instead. But a moment later Dirk makes a tense, brittle sound and you open them again, because there’s no way you aren’t going to watch as this happens. The pure perversion in the sight of him sinking down onto your bulge, his mouth dropping open, tongue flickering out to wet delicate pink lips. You are sweating so profusely your back slides against the workroom floor.  

“Oh, _fuck.”_ Dirk bites down hard on the obscenity. He doesn’t swear anywhere near as much as the other Strider does—the younger one, with the incomprehensible lexicon—but every time he does it hits you hard, heating your blood and quickening your pulse. His deep, melodious voice forming those coarse words is pure depravity. “That feels so... _Jesus.”_

You make the only answering noise you can, a hard moan through the gag, loud enough that you hope he hears it. You want him to know how wonderful he is, how good this act of debasement feels. Your bulge undulates and Dirk lets out a gasping laugh, grabbing at your hips for balance.

“Dammit, that’s bizarre.” He moves in a sinuous roll. “God…this is so…” The laughter turns into a grunt as you feel your bulge come up against a hard, slightly textured spot inside him. “Fuck, yes, right there…”

He might as well be talking to himself, because you have very little control of the situation. He arches his back, eyes fluttering closed, mouth opening on a soundless gasp.

You strain against the cuffs without really meaning to, bucking your hips up. He’s so hot. Do you feel cold to him?

"You…you trolls…” Dirk grunts, eyes lidded and heavy. “I talked to Kanaya…she said it’s harder for you to finish than for humans, so I can…nnnn…really wear myself out.”

You mumble around the gag again, not sure what you’re trying to say, glad you don’t have the chance. You’ll only make a fool of yourself.

Like he’s reading your mind, ready to give you the opposite of what you ask for, Dirk reaches down and fumbles with the buckle just under your ear. His hands are shaking, and you feel an unexpected rush of affection. Caliginous feelings are one thing, maybe even flushed, but these flashes of tenderness as he smoothes your hair back from sweaty cheeks are obscene. Almost pale.

He flicks a thumb at the corner of your mouth, and when he pulls away a single drop of blood trembles on the pad of his finger. You hadn’t even realized the gag had cut you. His tongue flashes out, tasting, smearing a line of blue across his fingers. That in combination with his pale skin reminds you of those rainbow drinker romances Nepeta loves.

“Dirk.” You say his name, choke on it. “Please—.”

You don’t know what you’re begging for—for him to never do that again, sully your blood with his dirty mouth, or for him to never stop, cut you up, turn you inside out. He just gives you another lazy smile and braces his hands on your chest, moving his hips again. “Here was me thinking you were going to taste like blue raspberry.”

“Raspberries—.” Your mouth stings hot when you speak. “Raspberries aren’t blue.”

“I know, man. That’s why it’s the most mysterious flavor of them all. Ahh, yeah—.” He arches his back and you try to keep your bulge pressed tight against the same spot, holding it steady for Dirk to move against. “Jesus fuck that feels good.” He’s panting, perspiration sliding down his forehead to catch in pale eyelashes. “Maybe…maybe I’ll keep you chained here to my floor, just like this. Make a good conversation piece.”

You moan desperately, can’t help the way your bulge twists. His nails dig into your chest. “Yeah, like…here’s my lab, here’s my fuckin’ sofa—nnggod…here’s the dude I keep chained to my floor exclusively for my own pleasure—.”  

Your hips jerk and you let out your loudest, most depraved moan yet. Dirk’s eyes shine and he leans forward so he can run his hands up your stomach and across your pectorals, trace the hard slashes of your collarbones. He touches you like you are valuable, worthy. All that talk about keeping you chained up had been a joke, but at this instant you would let him. He’d only need to command you in that voice, push at you with that irresistible will, and you would do anything he asked.

You love it. You never want it to stop.

**Author's Note:**

> My life started the day I got caught  
> Under the covers with secondhand lovers  
> Tied up in pretty young things  
> In a state of emergency  
> Who were you trying to be? 
> 
> -"Hallelujah", Panic At The Disco


End file.
